Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Forty Two

Jack phoned London a little after 9am The conversation with Mathew had gone far better than he’d expected.

‘Don’t beat yourself up, big brother,’ said Mathew. ‘You did a great job tracing the ransom. The government is recovering the money as we speak. They’ll get it all back, less of course several millions in commission. But that’s peanuts to what was paid.’

‘Yes, but we still let Washington slip.’

‘We’ll get him, Jack. We know what he looks like now. So does the CIA. His face is plastered all over Europe, and Interpol now have him as, Most Wanted.’

‘Not forgetting the Templari,’ said Jack, ‘I doubt they’ll let the killing of their agents go un-punished?’

‘That’s right. The world that was so open to him has shrunk, bro.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘You going to head home from Algiers, Jack?’

‘Might as well. Unless something comes up and we can go after him again?’

‘You dock at seventeen-hundred, local time?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Okay, I’ll have someone from the Embassy pick you up. They’ll sort you out a decent flight home. What about Bogdan? He’s going to Moscow?’

‘No, he’ll be comin’ to London too. I said there’d be a substantial reward.’

‘Okay, good. I’m sure Her Majesty’s Government will be more than generous.’

‘Three-mill generous?’

‘I don’t see why not. All things considered.’

‘Good. Thanks’ Matt.’

‘How you feeling by the way? How’s the voyage?’

‘Don’t ask, bro.’

After leaving the docks area, Washington had gone back into the city and parked-up in one of the less salubrious neighbourhoods.

He got out and had only walked for about a hundred yards, when he saw the two youths appear. He stepped back into a derelict shop doorway, as a large rat ran over his foot. He watched as the kids walked around the sleek car. Jackals, eyeing up a ripe carcass. He grinned.

The keys, dangling in the ignition, made it easier than normal for them to drive off.

As the engine’s growl faded into the distance, he smiled and walked quickly away from the dog-shit laden street. The big rat re-appeared for a second, sniffed the air, then ran across the pavement and into a drain.

Back in the Castellane district, he checked into a small boutique hotel to consider his options. He had a few thousand in euros, plus over fifty thousand dollars available on valid credit cards. But that wouldn’t be enough to get him out of Europe undetected. If the fuckin Brits were onto him, then they’d discovered his new identity. More worryingly they now knew what he looked like. He needed to get onto one of the banks and get some real money transferred.

As he swiped the phone’s screen he smiled. The thought of the money brightened his mood considerably, especially now he didn’t have to hand over two-bill’ to the Templari. A new face in the Philippines again, he thought. He scrolled down and found the number.

‘Good afternoon. Thank you for calling Macau Merchant. How may I help you?’

‘Hello. My name is Boston. May I speak with the Managing Director please?’

‘Certainly, sir. Please hold the line a moment.’

A few seconds passed and then. ‘Mr Boston, good afternoon. How may I help you, sir?’

‘I’d like to transfer some funds please.’

‘Certainly sir. We just need to go through some security?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘May I have your account designation, sir?’

‘Blue, 1. 1. 5. 1. 6. 1. Gold.’

The line was silent for some time and then. ‘Ah. I’m sorry, Mr Boston, sir. That account is now closed.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Closed and the funds transferred, sir.’

Washington’s throat was constricted. He couldn’t speak for several seconds. He swallowed hard. ‘What? That’s impossible. What the hell have you done with my money?’

‘I can’t really say, sir. There has been an intervention from our government.’

‘Intervention? Your government? What do you mean? There should be almost a billion sterling in there.’

‘Not any more, Mr Boston. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you, sir. I have no idea what…’

‘I’m coming there to sort this shit out. You’re a bunch of thieving cock-suckers.’

‘Mr Bost…’

Washington threw the phone across the room. He collapsed onto the couch as his legs buckled under him. His breath came hard and fast. Heart pounded. He looked at the phone up against the wall, then jumped up and retrieved it. Frantically scrolling through the contacts, he called the other two banks.

After the calls, he remained slumped on the couch. For almost fifteen minutes he sat in a daze. Then his heart rate returned to normal and his breathing steadied. He stood up and went to the window. The busy street below, with the smiling happy people going about their business, suddenly annoyed him. He opened the window and sucked in the warm air. His mind was calm now. The realization of what had happened to his money hit him hard. Gone. His money was all gone. ‘Those fuckin Brits,’ he said out loud.

The journey from Monaco to Marseille had taken a little over two hours in the Audi. The bus would take almost five, calling at Toulon, and several other lesser towns on the way east. The express would have been faster, but the one that trundled along the old coast road was more discreet.

It was not his ideal mode of travel, but it did however offer the most low-key, with no security checks at the Bus Station. Get back to the villa he’d thought. The four-hundred-grand in the floor safe. Risky, but necessary. It’ll get me out of France. Out of Europe. Then I’ll deal with Mr Jack Castle and the Templari.